Killing the Phantom
by baronessa
Summary: An imagining of how things might have ended for Britten post-finale, assuming that the Red World was his true reality.
1. Chapter 1

"**It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality." -Virginia Woolf**

* * *

Dr. John Lee felt a chill run up his spine as walked through the entrance of Vista Psychiatric Hospital. He hadn't been back to work in over a week—not since Michael Britten had broken into his home and spirited him off to an empty storage locker at gunpoint. The thought of being trapped alone inside the storage unit still made him shudder, and he knew it would be in his best interest to seek help from a colleague soon to treat him for mild post-traumatic stress disorder, but he couldn't think about that right now. In this moment, the only thing that mattered was getting himself in a position to treat Michael Britten. He owed Michael that much.

Lee presented his credentials to the security guard and then took the elevator to the sixth floor, where the office of Dr. Glenn Simmons was located. Simmons had been assigned to the Britten case only yesterday, just after Michael had been transferred from the county jail to Vista's involuntary psych ward, so Lee was optimistic that he would be able to re-assume control of the case without much fuss.

Finding that Simmon's door was already opened a crack, Lee gave a perfunctory knock as he walked into the office.

"Hi, Glenn," he said to the grey-haired man sitting at the desk. "Sorry, if I'm a little early."

"John!" the man replied jovially. He rose from his chair, crossed the room, and grasped Lee's shoulder in a conciliatory manner. "How are you doing? Coping all right? Awful business, this Britten thing. Awful all around."

"Yes," Lee agreed. "It's been a rough week. But I'm back on the job now, so if you're amenable...well, I'd like to take over again as Michael's primary psychiatrist."

Simmons raised an eyebrow and let out a small laugh.

"God, you certainly know how to pick 'em, don't you?" he said grimly. "So, what do you need to know?"

"Just get to me up to speed if you can. What's the situation with Michael now?"

Simmons sat back down and gestured for Lee to take a seat in one of the chairs opposite his desk.

"Well," he began slowly, "they transferred him here yesterday afternoon. We've been conducting a 24-hour observation, and thus far, Britten's done nothing to demonstrate that he's currently capable of communicating or understanding his surroundings. According to the physician at the Los Angeles County Jail, he's been fully catatonic for nearly two days straight."

Lee groaned. This news was far worse than he had feared. Michael had clearly retreated so far into his dream life that he had become completely detached from reality. It would take an aggressive course of treatment now to return him to anything resembling a functional state.

Simmons opened a file on his desk and continued.

"Apparently, before the catatonia set in, he attacked another officer who visited him. A woman named..." he flipped through a few pages until he found the correct information. "...Tricia Harper."

"He attacked Captain Harper?" Lee asked incredulously.

"The report says he accused her of killing his son and tried to strangle her. They had to subdue him with a taser." He scanned the paperwork again. "Later that day, Britten threw a temper tantrum in his cell, screaming and throwing things. When they checked on him again later, the guards found him curled up against the wall, rocking back and forth and staring into space. His IA attorney called for a hearing to have him declared unfit for trial, and then the judge signed off on an immediate, 90-day court ordered hospitalization."

Lee rubbed his temples and sighed. This was all his fault. He should have never let Michael leave his office after their last session, when it became clear that the detective's imagination was running rampant with delusional beliefs. If he had only been more forceful, more cautious, Michael wouldn't have tried to kidnap Hawkins, Bird would still be alive and this whole breakdown could have been avoided.

Sensing Lee's distress, Simmons stopped talking. He took off his glasses and flashed Lee a stern look.

"Are you really sure you want to be involved with this one now, John? Because nobody would judge you for passing it off to somebody else and walking away. I mean, the man abducted you, for chrissake."

Lee shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "Michael's my patient. I'm responsible for him. Besides, I know his history better than anybody else."

Simmons nodded.

"Well, in that case, I'll transfer all of the paperwork over to you. I was about to recommend that Britten be put on a rigorous course of intravenous benzodiazepines, but if you think differently..."

"No, I think that sounds like the best option for Michael right now. Hopefully the drugs can help to coax him out of this catatonic depression and draw him back into reality."

_Hopefully_, Lee thought dolefully. Hopefully he would be able to see to it that Michael Britten didn't remain lost in the wilderness of his fantasy world forever.

* * *

There wasn't a moment that passed now where Hannah Britten did not feel like crying, yet she seemed to be incapable of producing tears. So many had been spilled already—first for Rex, then for Bird and for Michael—that mustering up any more felt simply impossible. Instead, she resorted to wringing her hands and taking deep, steady breaths to stay calm. Or at least, as close to calm as someone in her position could be.

She looked up at the clock in Dr. Lee's waiting room and sighed. Four minutes until their appointment. Four minutes until she would have to discuss every horrible detail of her husband's mental breakdown. If only the clock would stop—then she could avoid it forever.

"Mrs. Britten?" A soft-spoken, bespectacled man of about 45 approached her with an outstretched hand.

"You must be Dr. Lee," she said in the friendliest voice she could manage. "Please, call me Hannah."

"Hannah, thank you so much for coming in. Please, follow me."

He lead her to his office and offered her some coffee, which she politely declined. A moment of silence fell between them.

"So," Hannah blurted out, finally. "Is this where you and Michael...his appointments?"

"No," Lee replied. "That was at the office I maintain for my private practice. I use this office primarily for the work I do with patients here at the psychiatric hospital."

_Psychiatric Hospital_. The phrase hit Hannah like a punch to the gut. Michael, her beloved, reliable Michael, had now been locked away in a psychiatric hospital. A place for crazy people. A loony bin.

"I, um...I brought some clothes for him," Hannah said, changing the subject. "Mostly T-shirts and pajama pants...comfortable things, like you said."

"That's great. Thank you," Lee responded. He took the bag Hannah was holding and placed it beside his desk. The conversation hit another lull. Finally, Lee broke the silence.

"So, let's discuss Michael, then, shall we?"

"Yes, I guess we should."

"How much do you know about his condition?"

"Well, his attorney told me that he's become non-responsive. That's he's, um...what do you call it?" She asked.

"Catatonic," Lee said.

"Right. Catatonic. So I guess he'll be held here until he's mentally able to assist with his own defense. Is that right?"

"More or less," Lee stated. He cleared his throat and leaned in towards Hannah. "I want you to know," he started, "that I'm committed to doing everything I can to give Michael the help he needs. We're already starting drug treatments, and I'm very hopeful that we'll be able to bring him around and begin therapy within the next few days."

Hannah bit her lip.

"You know, I just...I-I don't understand," she stammered. "How can you be so devoted to helping him after what he did to you? I mean, He might have killed you."

Lee smiled sadly.

"Hannah, nothing Michael did was enacted with a malicious intent. His paranoid delusions, his hallucinations...they were all caused by a complete psychotic break spurred by his inability to accept his role in Rex's death. He wasn't responsible for his actions. I firmly believe that."

Dr. Lee's mention of Rex set Hannah's teeth on edge. For so long, she had believed that Michael was stronger than she was. That he was immune to the sort of overpowering sense of loss she had felt after Rex died. She had never realized that his blasé attitude stemmed from the pitifully deluded belief that Rex was still alive in some alternate universe they shared together. Sure, Michael had mentioned having vivid dreams about Rex, but it had never occurred to her that he actually believed those dreams were real. That truth hadn't come to light until she had gone to visit him in the ICU after his arrest.

"Don't cry, Hannah," he'd said. "It's a mistake. I promise you. They're setting me up. I'll prove it. I already proved it in the green world. Bird and me, we took the whole organization down. I even sent Rex away to your sister's for the weekend so that he'd be safe when I went after them. Please, Hannah, don't cry."

She took a sharp breath and looked up at Dr. Lee.

"How much did he tell you about this weird alternate reality of his? This 'green world' he believes in?"

"Unfortunately, I'm not at liberty to discuss specifics, but I can tell you that it was definitely the primary focus of our sessions together. I really thought he was finally accepting the reality of Rex's death a few weeks ago, but I'm afraid that when his memory of the accident started to return, the pain was just so great that he couldn't cope with it. That's why he had to invent the conspiracy around Detective Hawkins: To shift blame for the accident away from himself."

"A few weeks ago?"

"Yes."

Hannah gulped.

"He had sort of a meltdown, right around then, you know. I came home one night and found him on the floor, sobbing that Rex was really gone and that it was his fault. It was so out of the blue. I mean, I noticed that he'd been acting strangely, but I just thought it was stress because of Emma and the baby. I didn't think..." her voice trailed off. "I should have called you. I should have said something. I could have stopped this."

"Hannah, there's no way you could have predicted the extent of Michael's breakdown. This is not your fault. I assure you that."

Hannah gave her head a weak shake.

"I know that," she admitted quietly. "Logically, I know. But it's hard not to feel it anyway." She fidgeted with her hands for a minute and then spoke again.

"When can I see him?" she queried. "Can I see him now?"

Dr. Lee frowned.

"I think we should wait a few days," he said gently. "After the drugs have had a chance to take effect."

Hannah nodded. She hated to admit it, but Dr. Lee's answer was a relief. She didn't particularly want to see Michael in the state he was currently in, unable to speak or recognize who she was. A broken man. A silhouette of man.

_I see a little silhouetto of a man... _

"Well, thanks for your time, Dr. Lee. I'll expect to hear from you in a few days, then."

Dr. Lee stood up to shake Hannah's hand, and then opened the door for her. She felt almost numb as she wandered from his office out to the parking lot, as though somebody had reached inside of her and plucked out everything that could potentially cause a person to feel anything like pain.

Hannah slipped into the front seat of her car and turned on the ignition. She glanced back at the building behind her and took another deep breath.

"Goodbye, Michael," she whispered.

Then she drove away.


	2. Chapter 2

The air inside the motel room was thick with the scent of sweat, shame, and stale cigarettes, but Tricia Harper didn't mind in the slightest. In an odd way, she found the scent strangely comforting—a sobering reminder of the fact that she, like everyone else who had been there before her, was a tarnished, deeply flawed human being.

She hadn't always viewed herself in this manner, but ever since her horrifying encounter with Michael in his jail cell, she'd been wrought with self-doubt and anguish. It was almost as though his strong, vengeful hands had never really stopped clenching her throat; they would probably be gripping at her now forever.

The bed creaked as Harper rolled over and gazed at Kessel. He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, chatting to somebody on his phone.

"Get out!" he yapped gleefully to the person on the other end. "That's amazing. God, that's just...perfect. Really. Thanks, I'll be in touch."

He turned off his phone and tossed it onto the bed with a wide, leering grin.

"Who was that, Carl?" Harper quizzed.

"You're not gonna believe this," he said excitedly. "That was Hawkins. Get this: Britten's gone totally bonkers, for real. They moved him to the loony bin yesterday because he's not competant to stand trial. We did it, Trish. We're totally off the hook. None of things he knows will ever see the light of day, now. It's over."

Harper grimaced.

"What? Why are you making that face? Hell, Trish. I thought you'd be _happy_."

"Happy?" she snapped. "Carl, how can I be happy knowing that we killed an innocent teenage boy and a decorated cop? Not to mention the fact that we've completely shattered a man's life and mental well-being. Relieved? Yes. Happy, absolutely not."

Kessel snorted.

"Don't go acting all soft on me now, Tricia," he snarled. "You wouldn't know a conscience if it bit you in the ass."

"Maybe I'd know one if it tried to strangle me," she countered.

"Now, see here!" Kessel yelled. "If you're thinking of going off and blabbing—"

"Don't get your panties in a twist," Harper scoffed. "I'm not saying a damn thing. But that doesn't mean I have to be glad about the way things turned out. Jesus, you really are a pig sometimes, Carl." She stood up hastily and snatched her clothes up off the sticky, brown carpet.

"Tricia, come on! Where are you going?"

Harper threw on her slacks and blouse, and stomped over to the door.

"I'm going back to work," she huffed. "I suggest you do the same. And don't call me again for the next few weeks. I don't want to see you right now."

She slammed the door behind her, walked three steps, and then burst into mess of tears.

_I'm so sorry_, she thought woefully. _I'm so, so very sorry._


	3. Chapter 3

There was nothing abnormal about Michael Britten's Wednesday evening. In fact, it was almost downright boring. He was sitting at the kitchen table, catching up on paperwork, while Hannah and Rex were puttering around him, playfully bickering over whether or not Rex would be allowed to attend a bonfire on the beach the next night. Another man might have found the averageness of it all incredibly dull, but it made Michael exceedingly happy. Just for all of them to be together again—it was everything he had ever wanted.

He smiled to himself as he listened to Rex do everything in his power to wear down his mother's defenses.

"Just say yes. Come on. Just say it." the teenager implored.

"I don't know, Rex. I don't really want you going out so late on a school night."

"Mom, please. Everyone else is going. Like, literally everyone I know."

Hannah giggled.

"Oh, yeah?" she asked with a smile. "Literally? So does that mean your father and I are going? The neighbors?"

Rex laughed and held his hands up in mock surrender.

"Okay, okay. Maybe not _literally_. I might have been overstated that one a little. But seriously, Mom. It's going to be, like, a really big thing, and I don't want to miss it. Please can I go?"

"Let's ask your father," Hannah replied. "Michael, what do you think?"

"I think..." Michael said, standing up from the table, "that I want a beer." He grinned mischievously as he walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle from bottom shelf.

Rex rolled his eyes.

"Ugh! Dad, you're killing me!" he exclaimed. "Come on, just pick a side. Who's it gonna be? Me? Or Mom?"

_Crash!_

The beer bottle slipped from Michael's hands and fell to the ground, shattering into countless shards. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him as Hannah and Rex looked on in confusion.

"Dad, are you okay?" Rex asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Michael mumbled. "I'm just fine."

"All right, well you still have to choose." There was something strange about Rex's tone all of a sudden. Something weird that made him sound distorted and hostile.

"Yes, Michael," Hannah joined in. Her voice was harsher now, too. "You have to choose one of us. Who's it going to be? Me? Or Rex?"

"I-I don't...I don't want to choose. I want you both," Michael sputtered. He looked up and saw that the room was spinning around him. He took a step forward towards his wife and son, but stumbled. "I want you both," he repeated.

"No," Hannah and Rex said in unison. "You have to choose. YOU HAVE TO CHOOSE."

They continued chanting as everything in the room faded to black and Michael went crashing to the ground, just like beer bottle before him.

* * *

When Michael opened his eyes again, all he could see was a blur of white light. He blinked several times, until the brightness finally morphed into shapes he could actually comprehend. He glanced around and saw that he was inside of a small room with soothing, light green walls and a high window covered with bars. He was sitting in a chair with shiny, silver wheels attached to it, and there was some sort of strange tube sticking out from his right arm.

"Michael?" echoed a faint, yet familiar voice.

Michael turned his head forward to see a well-dressed, Asian-American man in a sweater and tie kneeling before him, holding some sort of small, pen-like flashlight up to his eyes. It took him more than a minute to realize that the man was Dr. Lee.

"Michael, can you hear me?" Dr. Lee asked, looking very concerned.

Michael immediately lifted his left wrist, only to see that there was a red rubber band resting on it.

"No," he whispered in a panicked tone. "No, no, no, no, no." His breathing quickly became shallow and irregular, and he could feel his heart pounding inside his chest. This was wrong. It was all wrong. He wasn't supposed to be here.

"Michael?" Dr. Lee repeated.

"I-I left the red one," Michael cried out. "I left it! I left it!"

"No, Michael," Dr. Lee said patiently. "I know it maybe felt like you were somewhere else, but you've actually been here the whole time. You didn't leave reality."

"No, you're wrong," insisted Michael. "I was really with them, I was."

"You were experiencing what we call a catatonic episode paired with acute psychosis. You've been hallucinating. Dreaming."

Michael could feel his whole body quivering. He had wanted so much to believe that everything had been righted in the world; that his life was whole and perfect. But now that feeling of security was being ripped from him yet again. _No_, he thought. He wouldn't stand for that. He _couldn't_.

"Send me back!" he demanded.

"I can't do that, Michael."

"But you don't understand," he pleaded. "I was with Hannah and Rex. Both of them, together. Please, doctor. Please, I just want to be with Hannah and Rex."

"Michael, Rex is dead. You know that."

A cold sweat broke across Michael's entire body. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a low, sorrowful moan. Not knowing what else to do, he buried his head in his hands and started to rock himself to and fro.

"Michael, it's going to be all right. You're at Vista Psychiatric Hospital now, and everyone here is going to take very good care of you. I promise." Dr. Lee stood up and made a beckoning motion. Instantly, two men clad in white scrubs appeared beside him. Michael saw that one of them was holding a syringe.

"We're just going to put you down for a little rest, now, and then once you're less agitated, we'll start working through this. Okay?"

Michael didn't even have a chance to respond before the man with the syringe went ahead and plunged it into his arm. He immediately felt all of the energy draining from his body, and soon, even the task of keeping his eyes open became too exerting. He shut them and silently prayed that Hannah and Rex would be waiting for him on the other side, but his prayer went unanswered. They did not come back. Nothing came to him at all except for isolation and the sweet, black oblivion of sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

From that point on, Michael's ability to switch realities ceased entirely. He always went to sleep in his little white bed, hoping that he would awaken back home with Hannah and Rex, but every time he opened his eyes, he found himself still locked away in the small cell of a room he'd been confined to at the psychiatric hospital.

According to Dr. Lee, this was because the drugs he'd started taking were having a positive effect on his psyche, however, as far as Michael was concerned, 'positive' was completely the wrong word for it. He felt exhausted and scared and completely, utterly alone.

"Let's talk about what happened at the county jail with Captain Harper. Do you remember that, Michael?"

It was the fifth day since Michael had woken up from his catatonic depression, and he was currently sitting in his morning therapy session with Dr. Lee. He was still struggling to get used to the idea of being trapped in the harshest of his three realities with seemingly no hope of escape, and this line of questioning wasn't making him feel any better.

"There's nothing to talk about," Michael brooded. "She killed Rex and then Bird, and now she's getting away with it because nobody will listen to me. There's nothing else to say."

"No?"

"NO."

"Okay, well what _do _you want to talk about, then?"

"Nothing. Because I don't belong here," Michael muttered testily.

"Why do you feel that way?" Dr. Lee asked in the even-heeled, psychobabble voice he used whenever he disagreed with one of Michael's conjectures.

"It's all crazy people here," Michael grumbled. "Lunatics. I'm not like them. I'm not crazy."

"Michael, everyone here is suffering from a serious mental disorder, and you're no exception to that. I know you don't like to think of yourself that way, but let's be honest: Your dreams and hallucinations, they certainly don't fall under the category of mental wellness. As I've told you before: You're suffering from an aggressive case of paranoid psychosis."

"You don't know that!" Michael blurted out angrily.

"Doesn't the fact you've stopped having these vivid dreams about alternate realities ever since you started taking anti-psychotic drugs tell you that perhaps I actually do?"

Michael looked down at the ground. In his heart, he knew Dr. Lee was probably right, but it was the last thing in the world he wanted to admit. It would mean that Rex was really gone forever—along with Bird, too—and that kind of loss was a concept Michael definitely wasn't ready accept.

"When will I see Hannah?" Michael pressed, evading Dr. Lee's last comment. He had been told that Hannah was finally coming to see him today, and although the idea of his wife seeing him as a mental patient made him uncomfortable, he was still eager to be with her.

"This afternoon during visiting hours," Dr. Lee told him.

"When are visiting hours?"

"Right after nap time, between four and six o'clock."

"I miss her," Michael lamented softly. "I miss my family."

"I know you do, Michael. I know." whispered Dr. Lee. And that was all they said to each other for the rest of the session.

* * *

Hannah paced anxiously across the floor of the hospital's visitation room, unsure of what to expect when Michael arrived. She knew from her phone conversation with Dr. Lee that he had responded well to the benzodiazepines and was functioning again as a self-aware human being, but beyond that, Hannah had no idea what sort of interaction was in store. She was still debating whether or not to tell him about her plan for the Summer, but it was so hard to decide without knowing what state she'd find him in. Perhaps it would be best not to mention it now at all.

A few more minutes passed before the security door on the north end of the room let out a disconcerting buzz and slowly inched open. Soon after, Michael wandered in, flanked by two stony-faced orderlies in dressed in white. He himself was clad in a grey t-shirt, plaid, flannel pajama pants and slippers, along with a host of medical ID bracelets and the red rubber band he always insisted on wearing around his wrist. He looked slightly worn out and ragged, but there was no doubt that he was fully cognizant of his surroundings again.

"Hannah!" Michael breathed. She couldn't tell if he looked happy or distraught.

"Oh, Michael," she said as she enveloped him a warm, affectionate embrace. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his head into her shoulder.

"I've missed you," he croaked. "I've missed you so much."

For a while, they just stood there, lost in each other's presence. Finally, Hannah pulled back and lead Michael over to the table and chairs in the center of the room. The two orderlies hovered close to them as they sat down, which made Hannah incredibly ill at ease.

"I'm sorry," she said to the man lingering nearest to her, "but do you _have _to be in here?"

"It's the rules, ma'am," he responded matter-of-factly. "Potentially violent patients need to be monitored closely by staff during all visits."

_Potentially violent_ _patients. _Hannah sighed. She'd been so overwhelmed by seeing her husband again that she'd almost forgotten why he was in the hospital to begin with.

"Just ignore them, Hannah," Michael instructed. He was clearly embarrassed by the comment, but didn't want to make things worse by causing a scene. "They get to be like furniture after a while. Soon you won't even notice them."

"Okay," Hannah smiled. "I'll try that." She put Michael's hand in hers and squeezed it tightly. "So," she went on, "how are you?"

Michael shrugged.

"I don't know," he replied. "They keep giving me these drugs, but they make me so tired. Also..." his voice trailed off. He looked up at Hannah with a sheepish expression and then shook his head.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," Michael told her.

"No, you were going to say something else."

Michael frowned.

"It's just that...well, I-I can't see Rex when I take them," he admitted. There was a crack in his voice now. "I don't like that about them. I don't like being away from Rex."

Hannah noticed that Michael's hands were starting to shake. She pulled her chair closer so that she could rub his back and calm him down.

"I know, Michael," she said gently. "Believe me, I know. I miss him every second of every day."

He made a grunting noise and rubbed his eyes to keep himself from crying.

"You probably think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"Michael, don't say that."

"It's all right, everyone else already does. They think I killed Bird, too. Nobody will believe that I didn't."

Hannah didn't know how to respond. She didn't want to unnecessarily indulge Michael's delusions, but she didn't want to aggravate him either.

"Michael, you're a good man," she eventually declared. "I've always believed that and I always will. Okay?"

She breathed a sigh of relief as Michael silently nodded, indicating that he was content enough with her answer not to counter it.

They chatted about nothing in particular for another twenty minutes or so, until Hannah glanced at her watch declared that it was time for her to leave.

"When will I see you again?" Michael queried apprehensively.

Hannah's heart sank. She would have to tell him now. There was no avoiding it.

"Actually, I might not be back for a while," she confessed.

"Why not?" Michael looked confused.

"Well, the thing is, I'm going out of town for a little bit. I'm going to spend the Summer in Visalia with Carol; audit a few law classes at Chapman and see how I like it. And Emma might come up for a few weeks before the baby is due, too, so, there—"

"You're leaving me?" Michael interrupted.

"I'm not leaving _you_, Michael. I'm just getting away for a little while. This has all been really hard on me, and I just...I need to clear my head. I'll be back in a few months. I really will."

"But I need you, Hannah," Michael whimpered. "I need you. They already took Rex away from me. I can't lose both of you."

"You're not losing me, Michael. I promise. I'll only be a few hours away, and I can call you as often as the hospital allows it."

She reached out and grasped Michael's hand, in an effort to soothe him, but it was no use. He was already inconsolable—hyperventilating and trembling like a leaf.

One of the orderlies crossed over to Hannah and knelt beside her chair.

"Ma'am?" he said in a discreet tone. "I think maybe it would be best if you left now. We don't want him to get too agitated."

Hannah nodded. Without saying anything, she stood up, gave Michael a kiss on the top of his head, and then followed the orderly out of the room. She didn't look back; she couldn't. She had to keep moving forward. It was the only way she would be able survive.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning found Michael in a state of profound melancholia. He refused to leave his bed or take his medications, preferring instead to stay huddled beneath his blanket like a scared child hiding from the boogeyman. The hospital staff had made several attempts to rouse him, trying everything from threats to sweetly worded pleas, but he remained steadfast in his resolve not to budge from under the covers.

Sometime after 10 o'clock, the door to his room swung open again and Dr. Lee came rushing inside.

"Michael?" he called out worriedly. "Michael, what's going on? The nurses say you won't get out of bed."

"Go away," Michael barked. He could barely tolerate the idea of being conscious, let alone the idea of being analyzed and prodded by his shrink; Dr. Lee would just have to accept that fact and leave him alone.

"Michael, you need to take your medications," Dr. Lee said. He presented Michael with a small white cup full of pills. "Can you do that for me, please?"

Full of rage, Michael sat up, grabbed the cup from Dr. Lee's hand and angrily threw it onto the floor.

"I don't want them!" he bellowed. "I'm not taking them anymore."

Dr. Lee let out a disappointed exhale and sat down on the edge of Michael's mattress.

"And why is that?" he asked flatly.

"Because," Michael ranted, "everything is broken when I'm on them. I'm trapped here. I can't see my family. But if I stop taking the pills, I can be with Hannah and Rex again and everything will be okay."

Dr. Lee balked.

"Are you saying that you're goal right now is actually to retreat back into a state of catatonic psychosis?"

"Don't do that. Don't try to make it sound like something weird and horrible. It's not. You just don't understand because you haven't experienced it. I have so I know; I know it's the only way I can ever be happy again." Michael threw himself back on the bed and stared at the wall. He could feel a lump forming in his throat, and he didn't want the doctor to see him if he started to cry.

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way," Dr. Lee retorted. "We can't allow you to do that sort of damage to yourself."

"Why not?" Michael asked hotly. "What does it matter? After all, I'm just going to be locked away here or in jail for the rest of my life. And it all feels real to me, anyway, so what's the harm in it? Who would even care?"

"I think Hannah might."

Michael shook his head.

"No. Hannah is going away. She said I won't see her for a long time. And Rex..." Michael's bottom lip quivered. Within seconds, tears began to stream down his face like sheets of rain. "Rex is gone," he sobbed. "Rex is gone and he isn't coming back."

Michael couldn't stop crying now. He emitted a series of despondent howls and collapsed back onto his pillow with a heavy-hearted thud. For several minutes he wept without interruption, until Dr. Lee finally spoke again.

"Michael, I know how extremely painful this must be for you," he remarked, "but you've just had a major breakthrough here. You're finally acknowledging the fact that Rex didn't survive the accident, and that's a huge leap forward. Now you'll be able to move on."

"Stop it! Just stop!" Michael snapped. "Don't you understand? I don't _want_ to move on. I want to go back. Please don't make me stay here. _Please_."

Dr. Lee stared at Michael for while and scowled.

"All right, Michael, here's what we're going to do," he said at last. "I'll let you cease treatment for a few days, but only on one condition: When you see Rex again, I want you to have a serious talk with him, and I want you to ask him if this life you're choosing is really what he would want for you. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Michael asserted. "Yes, I'll do anything. I promise. Just let me go back to Rex." More tears sprang from his eyes, but this time they were tears of joy. He didn't care what Dr. Lee or anybody thought about him. He was going to get his son back, and that was the only thing that mattered.

* * *

For sixteen hours straight, Michael remained in his bed, unchanged from the conscious state of torment he'd been in earlier that morning. There was a brief period where he feared that nothing would happen, and that he would be trapped in the Red World forever, but ultimately he assured himself that it was just a matter of time before the drugs wore off and he would be able to return to his reality with Rex.

Sometime around 2am, Michael started to fall asleep. He grinned as a delicious wave of drowsiness washed over him and pulled him down into an undercurrent of slumber.

_Soon_, he thought as he nodded off. _Soon it will all be better_.

Michael woke up again the moment he conked out. But this time, he wasn't in his room at the mental institution. He was back in his bed at home.

He smiled to himself as he gazed around at the familiar surroundings. Well, at least they were _kind of _familiar. On one hand, everything appeared to be exactly where it should be, but then again, it was all tinted in a strange, sepia-like tone. It was almost as if somebody had recorded his house with a film camera from the 1920s. He threw off the covers and looked down at his wrist. His body was shaded normally, but the rubber band he wore was light brown, just like the contents of the house.

He stood up and wandered into the hallway.

"Rex?" Michael called out. "Rex, are you here?"

"Dad!"

Michael whirled around to see his son standing behind him, clad in a green t-shirt and beaming from ear to ear.

"Rex!" Michael exclaimed. He threw his arms around his son and cried. "Oh, my boy. Oh, thank God. Thank God."

"It's good to see you, too, Dad, but uh... you're kind of smothering me."

Michael pulled back and laughed.

"Sorry," he apologized. He placed a loving hand on the side of Rex's cheek. "I'm just so happy to see you."

"It's cool," Rex responded. He stood there nonchalantly while Michael glanced again at the sepia-tinged background of their home.

"I don't understand," Michael finally said. "Why is everything brown?"

"Well," Rex started, "this isn't _my _dream, but from what I know, when you mix red and green with a little bit of white, you get light brown. At least, that's what I learned in Mrs. Sherman's art class back in second grade. Remember all those finger paintings I made? The fridge was covered in 'em."

"You know, your mother and I had no idea what half of those drawings were supposed to be. We'd think maybe something was a box of cereal and then you'd inform us that it was actually an elephant."

"Hey, cut me some slack! my fine motor skills weren't fully developed yet!"

Michael snickered. "Yeah, all right," he said. "So, what should we do today? Do you want go for a run? Get something to eat? What day is it? Maybe we could get tickets for some kind of game or something. I haven't been following sports much lately, but—"

"Dad," Rex piped up.

"—I don't know. Basketball, maybe? Is that still going on?"

"_DAD_," Rex said again. There was a glint of fire in his eyes.

"What?" Michael asked. "What is it?"

"Aren't you supposed to ask me something?" the teen demanded.

Michael pouted. "I don't want to do that," he murmured, shaking his head.

"Dad, you kind of have to. That's why you're here. Come on, what kind of example would it set if you went back on your word to Dr. Lee?" The boy winked at his father. "I'm an impressionable youth, after all!"

Michael flashed a sad smile. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Rex was right. He'd made a promise, and now he had to make good on it.

"Okay," he conceded. He cleared his throat and looked his son directly in the eyes. "Rex," Michael began, "Is this the life you want for me?"

Rex scoffed.

"No way, Dad. Not at all."

Michael winced. That wasn't the answer he'd been hoping for.

"But I-I don't...I don't understand," he stuttered. "Why not? Don't you want us to all be together?"

"Of course I do," Rex commented. "But, Dad, the thing is...I'm not actually here. I died in the accident. You know that, right? I'm not real."

A shiver ran down Michael's spine.

"You feel real to me," he said defensively.

"Yeah, well, that's because you're crazy," Rex teased. "Nice job on Tara, by the way. She was totally hot. Mom would be mad jealous if she knew you were capable of hallucinating somebody like _that_."

Michael flinched.

"Your mother went away to stay with her sister in Visalia for the Summer. She's starting a life without me. You're all I have left. Without you, I have nothing."

"That's not true," Rex insisted. "Mom still needs you. I've seen the way she looks at you. She loves you like crazy. She's just taking some time to sort things out. I mean, come on, Dad: You can't deny that this whole situation is seriously messed up. You can't begrudge her a chance to take a step back from it all."

Michael abashedly stared down at the ground. Rex had a point. Given the circumstances, Hannah was being amazingly strong. Maybe it wasn't fair to write her off just because she needed to take a break for a few months.

Rex continued.

"Also, what about Emma and the baby? You're about to become a grandfather, Dad. Do you really want to miss that?"

"But I'm going to miss it anyway, Rex. They have me locked up for a crime I didn't commit and I'm never going to get out."

"Maybe you will and maybe you won't," Rex said. "But you'll never even have a chance to make things right if you continue on this way. They'll keep you in that tiny room forever, and Mom will be all alone and you'll never meet your grandchild, and nobody will ever look in to Harper and Kessel again, because the only person who knows anything about them will be nothing but a worthless vegetable. That's not what I want for you, Dad. I want you to have a life."

"I could have a life here with you," Michael countered feverishly. "The three of us, we could all be here together."

"It's not a real life, Dad. It's a fantasy, and I don't want to be a fantasy. I want to be a memory; A happy one that you can share with Mom and Emma and my kid."

Michael gaped at Rex with utter disbelief. This was not the direction he'd anticipating things going in; not at all. He pulled Rex close to him and began to weep.

"I don't want to lose you," he bawled.

"You won't," Rex assured him. "Not as long as you remember me."

Before Michael could say anything else, the door to Rex's bedroom slowly began to creak open. He noticed that the doorway was filled with a bright warm light that made it impossible to see what was waiting beyond it.

"I think that's for you," Rex stated.

"No," Michael pleaded. "Please, not yet."

"I'm sorry, it's time." Rex took his father's hand and ushered him towards the open door. "Don't be scared, Dad," Rex coaxed. "I'll always be with you. I promise."

Michael turned to his son.

"I love you, Rex," he rasped as hot, flowing tears splashed across his face. "I'll always love you."

"I love you, too."

Michael scooped Rex up in one more strong, loving embrace.

"Goodbye, son," he whispered sorrowfully.

Then he walked through the door and let the warm light take him away forever.

* * *

Michael woke up and opened his eyes. He was in the psychiatric hospital again, laying in exactly the same spot he'd been in before falling asleep.

He gazed up at the clock on the wall and saw that it was 6:43am. Without thinking, he threw off his covers and ran to the door. He tried to turn the handle, but it was immovable, firmly locked from the outside.

"Hey!" Michael yelled, banging on the little window with his fist. "Hey, open up! Come on!"

After about a minute, two orderlies and a nurse came rushing over. One of them punched in a code on the outside keypad, waved a security card in front of the door's wireless magnetic lock, and then finally pulled it open.

"What is it, Mr. Britten? What's wrong?" asked the nurse.

"Nothing," Michael replied. "It's just that..."

"Yes?"

"I'm ready to take my medications now," he declared. "I'm finally ready."


	6. Chapter 6

Efrem Vega loosened his tie and cursed the oppressiveness of the smoggy Los Angeles heat. The weather in August was always stiflingly hot, but this year seemed worse than most. Even now, in the midst of dusk, when things ought to be cooling off, he still felt like he was walking through an oven.

Vega turned the corner onto Cahuenga Boulevard and slipped inside a large, modern office building in the middle of the block. He stood motionless in the lobby for a few seconds to bask in the refreshing coolness of the central air conditioning, and then headed over to suite 106B, where Dr. Lee had instructed him come.

He still had no clue what Lee wanted to talk about. It would be something to do with Michael, of course—that much was certain—but what that something was, Vega had no idea. He hadn't spoken with either man since the day of Michael's arrest, though God knew he thought about them both often enough. Dreamed about them, even. It was his punishment for betraying his partner, and he figured he deserved it, regardless of his intentions at the time.

"Detective Vega!" Lee called out anxiously as the policeman opened the door to suite 106B. It appeared that Lee had been waiting for him. "Thanks so much for coming. Please, step inside my office."

Vega followed the doctor inside. Lee gestured for him to have a seat on the olive drab couch in the corner of the room as he sat himself down on a matching chair opposite.

"You didn't tell anybody about my phone call, did you, Detective Vega? Or let anybody know you were coming here?"

"No," Vega stated. "You explicitly said not to. Hey, What the hell is all this about? Is Michael okay?"

Lee rubbed the back of his neck in an uneasy manner.

"Detective," he began, "I'm about to do something that I've never done before—something which is highly unethical and could cost me my license. However, it's the only solution I can think of under these circumstances. Our previous encounter has lead me to believe that you're the only person I can trust to aid me with this problem, and I hope I'm not wrong."

"God, what is it?"

"Well, let me start at the beginning," Lee said. He looked at Vega with solemn eyes and took a deep breath. "When Michael first started seeing me, he confided in me that he was having incredibly intense, realistic dreams every night about living in an alternate reality where Rex survived the accident instead of Hannah. These dreams were so lifelike that he admitted he couldn't actually tell which world was the real one and which world was the fantasy. Moreover, he insisted he didn't want to know, because he was happy not having to face the horror of losing a loved one."

Vega stared at Lee in disbelief.

"Wait a minute: You're telling me Michael had no idea at any given time if he was dreaming or awake? Even when we were on the job together?"

"Yes, that's precisely what I'm saying."

"So you knew he was losing it even then, and you still let him go back to work? What were you thinking?"

"I thought there was therapeutic value in allowing Michael to return to a familiar routine and do something that had purpose to him. But listen, that's not all I wanted to talk to you about this evening."

"Well, what then?"

Lee looked at Vega nervously.

"Michael's been in my care at Vista Psychiatric Hospital for over two months, now. When he first came in he was in a horrible state. He'd retreated so far into his dream world that he was completely catatonic. Like a psychological zombie. But with medication and therapy, he quickly reached a point where he was ready to let go of his fantasy world and accept the fact that Rex had really died."

"Okay...that's good, right? What's the problem, then?"

"The problem, Detective Vega, is that despite all these positive steps, Michael still adamantly claims that he had nothing to do with Detective Freeman's death, and that he was set up by Captain Harper, whom he insists is a major player in some police drug trafficking ring run by Kessel and Hawkins.

Vega squirmed. Everybody at the precinct knew the story now of how Michael had attacked Captain Harper while he was in jail, but that had merely been chalked up to the fact that he was completely out of his mind. Nobody had ever assumed that the act had anything to do with Michael believing she was involved with his made up drug conspiracy. Why would they? Harper was an honest cop...wasn't she?

"What's your point?" Vega questioned bewilderedly.

"My point," Dr. Lee went on, "is that it doesn't make any sense. Why would the drugs treat one delusion and not the other? And why would Michael cling to a conspiracy theory that was only invented to relieve him of the responsibility of admitting Rex's death in the first place? It's just doesn't add up—unless..."

"Unless?"

Lee sighed.

"What if I was wrong?" he bemoaned. "What if Michael wasn't imagining the conspiracy about the missing drugs? He's been going on lately about how he's starting to remember the actual sources of information he'd previously woven into his dreams via his subconscious, like how he recognized this one name—Ed Munte—from both a report he read while checking into Westfield and also from casually seeing it before and after Detective Freeman's death on Harper's cell phone. Things like that, which, I have to admit, could be absolutely true."

Vega immediately felt a knot forming in his stomach. All this time he had been trying to convince himself that wasn't a terrible person for turning Michael in, and now he was being confronted with the potentiality that he had been dead wrong about the man, and his captain to boot.

"I can't believe what I'm hearing. I mean, you're the one who told me Michael was delusional in the first place!" Vega hissed. "You did everything you could to persuade me he was having a complete mental breakdown!"

"He _was _having a mental breakdown, Detective Vega. Like I told you, Michael's ability to separate fantasy from reality was entirely compromised, and he absolutely needed to be hospitalized. And it's still very possible that this conspiracy theory is just that: A delusional theory. But given the circumstances, I really can't be sure, and without being sure, I can't properly treat my patient."

Vega felt like he was on the verge of having a little breakdown himself. This was all too much to deal with; too difficult to consider. He had been trying so hard to put the incident with Michael behind him, and now Lee was just tearing the wound wide open again.

"So why are you telling me all this?" Vega asked. "What is it that you want me to do about it?"

"Well I was hoping that maybe you could look into it," Lee confessed. "Discreetly, of course. I wouldn't want to cause any trouble."

Vega narrowed his eyes.

"Does Michael know you're talking to me about this?"

"Absolutely not. He's still in a very fragile state and I wouldn't want to do anything that could potentially cause further damage to his psyche. But from a scientific and psychological standpoint, there's good reason to find this situation curious, and I don't want to ignore it."

_"I knew I should never have trusted you!" _

Vega's mind raced back to what Michael had said to him right before he'd been dragged out of his house in handcuffs, babbling about being set up by Detective Hawkins. Poor Michael. Crazy or not, Vega had let his partner down, and that simply wasn't all right.

"Okay," Vega said resolutely. "I'll do it. I'll look into it. For Michael," he added.

Lee looked relieved.

"Thank you, Detective. Thank you so much."

Vega stood up and started for the lobby.

"I'll be in touch," he told Dr. Lee.

"Detective Vega, one more thing!" Dr. Lee called out after him.

"What?"

"Well...if Michael's telling the truth—if he's not imagining this—then it means these dirty cops have already killed two people to protect their secret. So please: Be careful out there."

Vega smiled.

"Don't worry about me, Doc. I've a got a secret weapon."

"Oh, what's that?"

"The fact that nobody in our precinct pays any attention to me. They'd notice an ink stain on a black cat before they noticed me, and I wish I was making that up, but I'm not. Anyway, I'm glad Mike is better. I'll do what I can for him."

And with that, Vega headed out the door, once again ready to face the heat.


	7. Chapter 7

Michael followed the orderly down the hall to Dr. Lee's office just like he did every weekday morning at 9:55am. Establishing a steady routine for patients was something the hospital took very seriously, and over the past few months, he had actually grown to appreciate it. There were no more sets of facts to get straight, no more alternating days, no more red and green rubber bands; just one simple and familiar schedule that never changed.

He woke up each morning at 7:30am, made his bed, got dressed, and then lined up to have his vitals checked. After that, medications were dispensed, followed by breakfast from 8:30-9:30, and then morning therapy at 10. It was so easy to remember, so effortless, that Michael often wondered how he had ever managed to function any other way.

Once they arrived, the orderly knocked on the office door, and just like always, Dr. Lee answered, but this time, Michael immediately noticed that something was off. The doctor looked apprehensive, diffident; not at all like his assured and methodical self.

"Michael," he said watchfully. "Please come in. Somebody is here to see you."

Michael's mind immediately raced to Hannah, but when he stepped inside the office, he saw that the mystery visitor was most certainly not his wife. It was Detective Vega.

"Hi, Michael," Vega said somberly.

"What is _he _doing here?" Michael demanded. He could feel his whole body going numb with the memory of being handcuffed on Vega's couch, while he tried in vain to convince everyone around him of his innocence. The man had betrayed him, and although it was true that Vega's actions had ultimately lead to Michael's much needed hospitalization, he still couldn't forgive his old partner for turning him in.

"Detective Vega has something important to discuss with you," Dr. Lee said. "Please, sit down."

"No! No, I don't want to talk to him. You tell him to go away. I have nothing to say to him."

Sensing that Michael might get aggressive, the orderly placed a strong hand on his shoulder as a warning of the things that would come if he didn't calm down.

"Don't touch me!" Michael growled with a cringe.

"Calvin," Dr. Lee said to the orderly, "it's okay, you can leave Mr. Britten here with me. He's going to relax now, and this will all be just fine. Please, don't worry."

The orderly looked doubtful, but complied anyway and left the room.

"Michael, sit down," Dr. Lee obliged. "I think you'll want to hear what Detective Vega has to say."

Not knowing what else to do, Michael obeyed the doctor's command and planted himself on the couch. He suddenly felt embarrassed that Vega was seeing him like this. He was wearing track pants and a wrinkled polo, and hadn't shaved in two days, since he was only allowed to handle a razor under careful supervision. By contrast, Vega looked dapper in a neatly pressed suit and tie. He was basically the poster-boy image for a well-dressed cop.

"Mike, before we get into it, I just wanted to let you know that I'm really sor—"

"Skip it," Michael snarled. "I don't want to hear your apology. Just tell me whatever is you want to tell me so that you can leave."

Vega pursed his lips and nodded.

"All right, then," he said evenly, leaning back in his chair. "Well, here's the thing: I know you were right about Hawkins and Kessel and Captain Harper."

Michael nearly fell off the couch.

"What?" he whispered, almost in dismay. This couldn't be real. It was too good, too perfect. He was imagining this. He had to be. He turned to Dr. Lee with wide, unbelieving eyes.

"Am I actually seeing him? Is this reality?"

"Yes, Michael," the doctor confirmed, "It's real. I asked Detective Vega to look into your claims about Captain Harper. Now, I know that it wasn't the most ethical thing to do, but—"

"You-you believe me?" asked Michael in awe.

"Michael, you've made amazing strides in your treatment these last two months, accepting the truth about Rex and your multiple realities...given that, it didn't make sense to me that you would still harbor such strong delusions about this drug conspiracy in spite of your progress. So I asked Detective Vega to poke around."

Sensing that now was a good time to enter the conversation, Vega tossed a manila envelope on the coffee table next to Michael.

"I've been following Harper for the past couple of days," he said as Michael picked up the envelope. "Those are pictures I took of her meeting with Kessel at a warehouse in Silverlake two days ago. I couldn't get close enough to hear _everything _they were saying, but they were definitely arguing over some sort of new shipment that needed to be moved. I also got the sense that they used to be sleeping together, because Kessel made a crack about how Harper had always been controlling, even in the sack. But that's not even the most important part." He narrowed his eyes and leaned in towards Michael. "Before Kessel left, Harper told him 'fine, but don't make a mess of everything this time. I don't want another Britten situation.'"

_Another Britten Situation._The words hit Michael like a ton of bricks. His son, his life, his happiness; these people had taken everything from him, and now they had diminished him to nothing but a pesky "situation." The room started spinning. Michael heard Vega and Dr. Lee speaking to him, but he barely make out anything they were saying. It was all just whispers and echoes scratching at his skull.

"Michael?" They called out. "Michael, are you all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he mumbled.

Then everything went black.


	8. Chapter 8

"That poor son-of-a-bitch," muttered Jake as he chomped on a piece of steak. "I'll tell 'ya for the record that I never believed he killed Freeman. Off his nut or not, Britten loved that guy like a brother. Still, poor son-of-a-bitch. Losing a kid like that—it could drive anybody looney tunes. Frankly, I'm not surprised he ended up in the psycho ward. Poor Britten. How did he look when you saw him?"

"Okay, considering," Vega replied, although it wasn't really the truth. To him, Michael had appeared remarkably fragile compared to his former self. Dr. Lee had warned Vega ahead of time that Michael's medications, though effective, also had a tendency to leave him feeling twitchy and disoriented, but he still hadn't been prepared to see his old partner looking so lost and frail. Poor son-of-a-bitch indeed.

After Michael had finally regained consciousness in Dr. Lee's office, following Vega's big reveal about Harper, the three of them had gone on to discuss what their next steps would be. They knew nothing Vega had overheard would be admissible in court, and since it was impossible to know who in the LAPD was in on the plot, asking for help from other cops was also off the table. As far as Michael was concerned, this also ruled out talking to his lawyer, who worked for the office of Internal Affairs. Vega seriously doubted that an attorney would be connected to the conspiracy, but then again, who could really be sure? If their own Captain was dirty, then it stood to reason that anybody could be an accomplice as well.

In the end, Michael had decided the only person worth trusting was a man whose criminal background was already out in the open: His old CI, Jake.

"He's got eyes and ears everywhere," Michael had reasoned. "If something's going on with another drug shipment, maybe he can dig up a lead for us, and we can use that information to get some warrants. I know it's a shot in the dark, but—"

"I'll do it," Vega had said. "I'll set up a meeting tomorrow."

And so here he was, sitting in a restaurant that, not entirely unlike Michael, seemed to be having trouble accepting that the past was gone (who were they expecting, the Rat Pack?), and asking a self-professed criminal to help him break a police-run drug smuggling ring. It was a surreal experience to say the least.

"So," Vega prodded. "Do you think you can help? I know it's a lot to ask, but you're all we've got right now."

Jake took another bite of steak and shrugged.

"Look, Efrem, I'll do whatever I can for you and Britten; I give you my word on that. But I can't promise that I'll learn anything."

"We know that. We do. But anything you can do for us, anything at all..."

"You got it, kid. I'm on it. In the meantime..." Jake reached for his wallet, pulled a weatherbeaten business card out of the billfold, and handed it over to Vega. "Here. That's my second ex-wife's boy, Kyle. We still talk now and then. He's pretty good with this sort of thing; it's kind of his job. So if you wanna meet with him, just mention my name and maybe he'll help you out."

Vega looked at the card and did a double-take. It read:

_Kyle T. Masterson _  
_Assistant U.S. Attorney_  
_Central District of California_  
_Criminal Division_

"Jesus Christ, your stepson is a _federal prosecutor_?"

"_Ex_-stepson," Jake corrected, "and for Pete's sake, keep your voice down. I've got a reputation to uphold, you know. If this got out..."

"I won't say a word," Vega snickered. "Scout's honor." He took out two, crisp $100 bills and presented them to Jake. "You can keep the change," he said told the CI.

Jake shook his head.

"Keep your money, kid. This one's on me. For Britten. I'll do what I can for him, I really will. Poor son-of-a-bitch. He didn't deserve a life like this."

"No," Vega concurred with a sad, faraway gaze. "He certainly didn't."

* * *

Vega shifted nervously in his chair as Kyle T. Masterson took off his thick, black-frame glasses and unhappily massaged the bridge of his nose. He'd just spent the last ten minutes showing the man his pictures of Harper and Kessel, and recounting what he'd heard at the warehouse, but it was difficult to know what the attorney would ultimately make of it all. Would he believe him? Dismiss him? Vega couldn't be sure.

Masterson took a deep breath and shrugged.

"I don't know, Detective Vega," he said hesitantly. "This is all highly circumstantial. Not even to mention the fact that the case against Britten is a pretty strong one. I mean, from what I heard, the man had a total nervous breakdown and had to be institutionalized."

"I know it's not a whole lot to go on," Vega responded, "And yes, Michael's had some...uh, _setbacks..._with his mental health, but I'm telling you now that I heard this conversation with my own two ears. And the only reason I even bothered to investigate this in the first place was because Michael's shrink asked me to. I mean, if his own shrink believes it..."

"All right, but even if it's true—I can't request arrest warrants based on this information alone. Police corruption is serious business. No judge is going to sign off on anything without solid evidence."

"But can't you launch some sort of investigation?" Vega asked. "Some kind of probe? That's what you do, isn't it?"

"Theoretically, yes. But like I said, a case of this nature has to be handled delicately."

"So handle it delicately, then! Just don't ignore it. Please."

Masterson pressed a loose fist against his lips and sat pensively.

"Please," Vega implored again. "Look, think of it this way: If this pans out, it could be a huge notch in your belt. Busting an LAPD drug-smuggling ring? You'd be the west coast Serpico."

"Serpico was a cop, not a lawyer," Masterson said with a laugh. It was the first time Vega had seen a smile cross his lips since their meeting had begun.

"Either way, will you check it out?"

"Look, this isn't something I can just dive into. But tell you what: I'll keep an eye on the situation. And if Jake comes up with some information we can use...well, then, maybe I can help you out, okay?"

Vega nodded and thanked the attorney for his time. Masterson's answer wasn't exactly what he'd wanted to hear, but it would have to be enough for now. It would just have to be.

* * *

_"How are you feeling today?"_

It was a question Michael had to answer every morning, although he didn't really understand why they bothered to ask. Even on his best days, he still had to live with the knowledge that his son was dead and that the people responsible for killing him—unlike Michael—were walking free. How the hell did they think he felt? But, then again, the nurses weren't fishing for anything that specific. They just wanted to know how well he was coping on a scale of 1-10 so that they could put a little note in his chart and then move on to the next patient. It didn't seem to matter if he was a 4 because his pills were giving him tremors, or if he was an 8 because Hannah had called the night before—any answer would do.

Ergo, it surprised Michael a little bit when one of the nurses pressed for slightly more detail than usual.

"Good morning, Mr. Britten," she said cheerfully as he approached the counter to get his meds. He tried unsuccessfully to remember her name. What was it again? Jenny? Julie? Something like that.

"Morning."

She handed Michael a cup of pills, watched him as he dutifully gulped them down, and then did a routine check of his mouth and gum line make sure they'd actually been swallowed. Following that, she wrote the date and time on a sheet of paper, and then made a reach for a nearby folder marked "Britten, M."

"And how are you feeling today?" Her pacifying tone made Michael bristle slightly in annoyance. Mentally ill or not, he still actively disliked being talked down to like an infantile lunatic. Would it be so hard for Jenny/Julie to speak to him normally?

"Mr. Britten?"

"I'm-I'm okay," he eventually responded with a scowl.

"How would you say you're coping right now on a scale from 1-10?"

"I don't know...a 3."

"Only a 3? That doesn't sound very 'okay' to me. What's wrong?"

Michael shrugged.

"Come on now, out with it."

"I guess I'm kind of scared," he admitted. "My 90 days are up in a few weeks and I don't know what's going to happen to me. I don't know if they'll keep me here or send me back to jail, or if..."

Michael stopped himself before he could slip up and say anything about Vega's slow-moving efforts to go after Captain Harper. From what he knew, Jake had supposedly found a few potential leads, but nothing was definite yet, and Michael was getting restless. Dr. Lee had heedfully instructed him to demonstrate patience in the matter and to avoid setting his hopes too high, but despite Lee's cynicism, Michael was still holding out for a miracle.

"If what?" The nurse inquired.

"Nothing," said Michael, "just...sometimes it's hard to wait for things to happen that are out of your control, you know?"

"So you're scared because you feel like everything is out of your control? Is that right?" she asked as she scribbled a note in his chart.

"Yeah, you could say that."

"And have you thought about what might make you feel more in control of your life?"

"No," Michael lied. He didn't see any benefit in telling her that he actually thought about it all the time; that he constantly fantasized about leaving Vista Psychiatric Hospital, walking over to his old precinct and strangling Tricia Harper again with his bare hands. That probably wouldn't go over very well with Jenny/Julie.

"Well, maybe you should try to make that one of the personal goals you set for yourself in group therapy this week," she suggested, "to come up with a plan that will help you feel more in control."

_Come up with a plan_. The phrase echoed in Michael's brain like a roll of thunder. _Come up with a plan. Come up with a plan._

He stared at Jenny/Julie in astonishment. She was right. He wasn't doing himself any favors by just sitting around and waiting. He needed to be proactive.

_Come up with a plan._

"Mr. Britten?"

"Come up with a plan," He repeated brightly. "You know what? I think I'll do just that."


	9. Chapter 9

Harper glowered as she trudged from the sunny parking lot into the dark, chilly warehouse where the meeting with Jimenez was scheduled to take place. It should have been Kessel's job to deal with these types of problems, but he was in Sacramento for a conference and couldn't get away—or so he claimed, anyhow. For all Harper really knew, he was shacked up at some motel down the street with a new conquest and just dumping all of the dirty work on her simply because he could.

_Either way, to hell with him_, she thought peevishly. _This is the last time. After this shipment, I'm out._

She walked up a flight of stairs to the second floor landing, where a young man in a light blue track suit was impatiently waiting for her with a menacing scowl. He had a gruesome tattoo on the side of his neck that seemed to depict crying, blood-soaked skeletons, along with some noticeable gang symbols on his knuckles, and there was a nasty looking scar on the side of his right cheek. The very sight of him made Harper feel nauseated, not because he scared her, but because he epitomized the fact that Kessel would get into bed with just about anybody, including herself.

"Jimenez, I presume?" she asked the man pointedly. He wrinkled his nose at her and scoffed.

"Who the hell are you, lady? Where's Munte?"

"Munte's out of town," she said evenly. "He asked me to come in his place."

The hood cursed under his breath and rolled his eyes.

"Man, eff that. I ain't talking to nobody but Munte!"

"That's fine," Harper responded coolly. "Just know that if things are delayed, you'd better be the one to explain why the shipment didn't get delivered on time."

Jimenez glanced at the floor nervously and then threw up his hands.

"Okay, fine. But you better be on the level, lady."

"And _you _better be getting your job done. We're supposed to have this shipment to the dealer by tomorrow night. What's the holdup?"

"The hold-up is tha—"

_Pop!_

The thug never got a chance to finish his sentence. Instead, he made a gurgling sound and fell forward as he clutched at what Harper immediately recognized as a very blood-stained stomach. If he wasn't dead already, he would be soon.

Before she even had the chance to react, Harper felt somebody thrust the tip of a gun barrel into the small of her back.

"Give me your gun," commanded a harsh voice. "Get it slowly. Now."

Terrified, she gingerly plucked her handgun from its holster and dropped it behind her for the gunman to pick up. He quickly snatched the weapon from the ground, and then carefully circled around her so that they could meet face to face. It was only then that she finally realized the shooter was Michael Britten.

Or at least, the man who _used _to be Michael Britten; he appeared so unkempt and frail that she almost failed to recognize him. The Michael she knew had never been so jittery, so terribly unhinged. Clearly, the events of the past few months had taken an enormous toll on his well-being.

"Michael!" she gasped. "What-what are you doing here? I thought...I mean, you're supposed to be in the hospital!"

He looked at her with the same angry, crazed expression he'd had the day he nearly strangled her to death in his jail cell.

"_Supposed _to be," Michael leered. "I escaped." He cocked the gun and took a deep breath. "I've been fantasizing about this for two and half months, you know. I have plans for you."

Harper could feel her heart beating out of her chest. This wouldn't end well. The man she'd driven to the brink of insanity was now holding her at gunpoint, and nobody but Kessel even knew where she was. No, this wouldn't end well at all.

"Michael, please," Harper rasped. "Please, don't do anything rash."

"Do anything rash?" he sneered. "What, you mean like KILLING MY SON? Or maybe framing me for my friend's murder to cover up your drug smuggling operation? RASH LIKE THAT?"

"Michael, I-I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, you have to believe that I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" he screamed. "You're sorry?" His hands were quivering and Harper could see tears pooling in his eyes. "He was only 15 years old. My boy. My little boy. How? How could you do that? After all the years we worked together? How could take my son away from me?"

Every single muscle in Harper's body trembled with the combined force of fear and guilt. She wasn't even sure what she was more afraid of at this point: Britten or the truth. It seemed like she had been trying to forget about both for an eternity.

"It just...it got out of hand, Michael. We were all in so deep and you were poking around at Westfield, so Kessel decided that...well, that you..." she looked away in shame. "I didn't know they would hurt Rex, though. Honestly, I didn't. That was all Hawkins and Kessel."

"No! It was all of you!" Michael roared. "All of you together. You destroyed my life. And now I'm going to do the same to yours."

He raised the gun again with a teetering hand and snarled.

"Wait!" Harper hollered in a frantic tone. "Michael, wait. I can help you."

"I don't want your help."

"But I have proof!" Harper groveled. "Against the others. I can give you proof!"

"What kind of proof?"

"All sorts. Bank statements. Documents. Recordings, even. I've been keeping them as collateral. They date back for months. It's more than enough to bring them down, I swear. If you just let me live, I can get them for you. I can."

"I don't believe you," Michael hissed.

"No, it's true. I promise. It's all in a safe deposit box at the Pasadena First National Bank. You can take me there now. I'll show you. Michael, please."

Michael glared at her intently with his icy blue, tear-stained eyes, and then, with a wavering hand, slowly lowered the gun. For a moment, they just stared at one another in awful, tension-fraught silence, until Michael finally unclenched his jaw to speak.

"Do you think they got all of that?" he asked breathlessly.

"Hope so," said another voice.

Harper whirled around to see Jimenez, sitting straight up and looking very much alive. He removed his blood-stained jacket to reveal a series of wires taped to his chest, along with a bag containing fake blood.

"Sorry, lady," he laughed cruelly, "but they offered me a deal, and I got no reason to go down for you."

Before Harper could reply, a flood of law enforcement personnel burst into the warehouse.

"FBI! Get down on the ground! Get down now!"

She dropped to her knees as scores of agents with guns scurried to surround her. One of them shoved her into a face down position and roughly cuffed her wrists as the others began taking inventory of the canisters in the warehouse.

She heard the sound of approaching footsteps and then turned her head to the side just in time to see Michael approaching her. He stopped and looked into her eyes with a hate-filled, piercing gaze that made Harper feel as though she'd been gutted like a fish and left for dead.

"Michael," she sniveled. "I really am sorry. I am."

He shook his head sadly and wiped away the tear drops that dotted his cheeks.

"I told you this before—in my dream," he said in a feeble voice, "but I'll say it again: Nothing that happens to you now can _ever_ be bad enough for me. Not ever. Not even if you get the death penalty. Because no matter what they do to you, it won't bring Rex back. And you will _never _suffer enough for that."

Harper nodded as the arresting agents forcibly dragged her to her feet.

"I know," she cried. "I do. I wish I could take it all back."

"Not as much as I do," Michael whimpered.

A broken sob escaped from his throat and echoed throughout the warehouse. It was the last sound Harper heard before they hauled her away.

* * *

As soon as Harper was taken out of the building, Vega ran upstairs to look for Michael. He'd been assigned by Masterson to act as Michael's handler on the scene (to ensure that he remained stable and didn't do anything drastic during their sting operation with the FBI) and Vega was taking the responsibility very seriously. Michael may have been mentally present enough to come up with the clever plan that revolved around getting dirt on some of the men Jake had been tipped off about, and then leveraging that information to get warrants for electronic surveillance of their activities with Harper and Kessel, but according to Dr. Lee, he was still greatly in need of emotional support. In fact, if Vega hadn't signed on to have his old partner released into his custody for the day, Michael would have never been temporarily discharged from the hospital in the first place.

Vega scrambled onto the landing and found Michael sitting on the floor, softly weeping while a confused FBI agent stood helplessly above him. Vega made a gesture to the man, as if to say "Don't worry, I'm taking care of this" and the agent gratefully departed to join his colleagues.

"Michael?" Vega called softly. He knelt in front of him and smiled. "Hey, you did great, buddy. We got her."

Michael swallowed a sob and tried to stop crying, but it proved to be an impossible task.

"But why?" he wailed forlornly. "Why did she have to take Rex?"

"I don't know. But look, she's going to be prosecuted now. That bitch is never going to see the light of day again, Michael. And they're about to arrest Hawkins and Kessel, too. It's over." He gently put his hand on Michael's shoulder to comfort him. "Come on, now. Let's go. I promised Dr. Lee that I would have you back at the hospital in time for your afternoon nap."

Michael rubbed his eyes and nodded aloofly as Vega helped him up and directed him to the stairs.

When they reached the bottom, Michael stopped dead in his tracks.

"Vega?" he whispered weakly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. This never would have happened without you. I-I'm sorry...for ever doubting you."

"No, _I'm _sorry," Vega replied. "I should never have trusted Harper."

"You couldn't have known," Michael responded. "You couldn't have known that she killed R-r...that she killed..."

Michael broke down again and crumpled into Vega's arms.

"It's okay," Vega reassured. "You'll see. Everything will be okay now."

He prayed to God he was right.


	10. Chapter 10

The fallout from the corruption bust was enormous. Nearly every law enforcement officer, criminal attorney and politician in Los Angeles seemed to be impacted by it in one way or another, and once the press got word of the story, the situation rapidly devolved into an all-out circus.

The only person who managed to keep a distance from it all was Michael himself, primarily because of Dr. Lee's firm determination to keep him sequestered from the ensuing chaos. Reporters and officials alike had been clamoring for statements and interviews, but each one was informed that Michael was being treated for exhaustion and therefore unavailable for comment.

It was actually the truth. Michael had been in the medical ward under mild sedation since returning to the hospital, and the only non-staff person permitted access to him was Hannah.

_Hannah. _

Having her back made Michael feel almost human again. Even though he was frequently groggy and overwhelmed, just knowing that she would be there during his periods of lucidness filled him with a tremendous sense of comfort.

On the third day following Harper's arrest, Dr. Lee paid the two of them a visit with news from Michael's lawyer.

"I've just been told that a motion has been filed to have all the charges against Michael dropped," he announced.

Michael smiled sleepily as Hannah breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank God. So...when can he come home? Soon?" she asked hopefully.

Dr. Lee made a dubious face.

"Well," he started, "that's something we need to discuss. I personally would prefer to extend Michael's hospitalization until I'm satisfied that he's adequately processed everything that's happened. This experience has been emotionally draining and I think it's best to err on the side of caution."

Hannah looked over at Michael and grasped his arm.

"Michael? Do you understand what Dr. Lee is saying?"

He nodded.

"How do you feel about that?"

"I-I think...yes. Stay," he stammered. As much as he hated to admit it, Dr. Lee was right. Even though he'd been dreaming about being exonerated for Bird's murder for what felt like an eternity, and was certainly no fan of living in mental institution, Michael also knew that he wasn't fully capable of leading a normal life just yet—not when that normal life meant existing without Rex.

"Okay, then," Hannah stated matter-of-factly. "It's decided. You'll stay here until you're ready."

She squeezed Michael's hand and began conversing again with Dr. Lee. He tried to follow along with what they were saying, but before he knew it, their words were washed away by an overpowering waterfall of drowsiness, and for the first time in nearly 9 months, Michael Britten fell asleep feeling at peace.

* * *

Michael was officially re-admitted to the psychiatric hospital for the another six weeks, but the experience this time around was drastically different from his first 90 days.

As soon as the murder charge was officially dropped, Dr. Lee moved him into a lower-security ward where patients were allowed to have more privacy and personal freedom. He also adjusted Michael's medications to a lower dosage (which greatly mitigated the negative side-effects he'd been having) and switched the focus of their therapy sessions from paranoid delusions and fantasy worlds to preparation for a real life at home with Hannah, who was now a daily hospital visitor, much to Michael's pleasure.

On one particularly pleasant day in September, she came bursting into the visitation room with a beaming smile so bright that Michael was almost surprised the hospital staff hadn't confiscated it for being too distracting.

"You certainly look happy," he commented as she leaned in to give him a kiss. "What's up?"

"Emma had the baby this morning!" Hannah gushed. She pulled out her cell and thrust it into Michael's hands. "It's a girl; a baby girl. She's so beautiful, Michael. Her name is Roxana Britten Sandoval, or Roxie for short. Emma named her after Rex."

Michael stared bewilderedly at the photograph on Hannah's phone. It was a picture of Emma, exhausted but excited, holding a small bundle with blue eyes, peachy skin and a shock of shiny, black hair that looked exactly like Rex's had the day he'd been born.

"A girl," he whispered as strange feeling of warmth swept over him. "Rex's little girl. She's so...I mean, I don't...it's—"

"It's amazing, isn't it?" Hannah interrupted.

Michael gave a nod as he wiped a trickle of tears from his face.

"Rex's little girl," he said again. It didn't seem real. It didn't seem possible, after all of the trauma and pain, that Rex could have actually left a living, tangible part of him behind. But there she was, perfect and pink and so very much like the lost son Michael had been unable to let go of. _Rex's little girl_.

Hannah grinned and put her head on Michael's shoulder.

"I can't wait for you to meet her in person. When do you think they'll let you come home?"

He paused. Up until today, he'd been rather anxious about leaving the hospital and rejoining the outside world, but now those feelings of fear and apprehension were slowly melting away.

"Soon," Michael replied. "I think very soon."

He would do everything in his power now to make sure that was true.

* * *

Finally, the day came for Michael to be discharged from Vista Psychiatric Hospital. He'd still be coming back three days a week for his therapy with Dr. Lee, of course, but that fact hardly made the transition from institutionalized patient to free man any less important.

"Are you excited?" Hannah asked as she pulled the car into their driveway.

"I'm _tired_," Michael responded. "I've been sleeping on a mattress thinner than a sheet of paper for the last four months, and now I'm finally going to be able to sleep in my own bed."

"Just sleep, huh?"

"Easy now," Michael laughed. "I'm supposed to be avoiding stress and over-stimulation, remember?"

"All right, fair point," Hannah conceded. She reached out to give his knee a gentle caress and then eagerly hopped out of the car. Michael grabbed his bag from the back seat, and then quickly followed as Hannah bounded up the pathway to open the front door.

Michael felt his heart racing as soon he walked across the threshold and into the front room. He hadn't been inside the house since that last moment with Rex in his sepia-toned dream, and it pained him now to have to remind himself that Rex wouldn't be there this time.

_It's okay, _he told himself nervously. _Dr. Lee prepared you for this. It's okay. You can do it._

"Well," Hannah said with a grin. "Welcome home, Michael."

_It's okay. It's okay. It's okay._

"Yeah. Thanks," he mumbled. Hannah shot him a look of concern.

"Do you want to go lie down for a bit? Emma will be here with Roxie soon, but you have some time to rest if you want."

"Okay, yeah; I think I'll do that," he said softly. Without another word, he wandered over to the staircase and slowly began to ascend.

_It's okay, _he thought to himself again as he reached the second floor. _You can do this. It's okay._

With a sense of determination, Michael marched down the hall towards the door of Rex's room. He stared at it for a moment, took a few deep breaths and then very gingerly turned the knob.

A wave of emotion surged through him the instant he walked inside. Everything was exactly as it had been before in his green world dreams, with the one glaring exception of Rex himself. Michael shuddered. This was how it was going to be now; how it _had _been long before he was mentally capable of understanding or accepting it. He was permanently in a life without Rex and there was nothing he could do to fix that fact.

For twenty minutes, Michael just stood there, unable to do anything else but process and stare. Had Hannah not come up behind him, he might have remained there all night.

"Michael?" she called out. He whirled around and saw her standing in the doorway, looking slightly worried. "Emma's downstairs with Roxie. Are you going to be all right?"

The sound of baby's cry suddenly pierced the air and made the hair on Michael's neck stand on its end.

_Roxie_. He'd almost forgotten. The little piece of Rex that had been left behind was here, waiting for him.

He glanced around again at all of Rex's belongings. There were so many tokens of Rex's existence around him; so many memories. He thought back to what Rex had told him in his dream.

_You won't lose me so long as you remember me._

It was true. Rex might have been gone, but he wasn't lost. He was here, in this room, all around them, and more importantly, within the DNA of the baby girl downstairs.

"Michael, are you going to be all right?" Hannah queried again.

He gazed back at his wife with a broad, glowing smile.

"Yes," Michael whispered as he reached for her hand. "I think I'm going to be just fine."

**THE END**


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